One Good Day
by tutb88
Summary: Police AU. One case which is going to turn Charles' world upside down, while he struggles to pacify his boss, investigate murders and come to terms with the mess his life has become.


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"All right. I need five minutes."

"May I…"

"Wait outside."

Heavy dark wood door has been shut right before he had a chance to utter a single word of protest. Well, as if somebody cares about his protest. As usual, his gaze caught the glimpse of the dimly lit corridor, the dark, sleek shape of the clock on the wall and the mirror — a tantalizing gleam into the insides of the mysterious house.

Charles sighed. Good morning to you too… partner.

Pushing the exasperation aside is a wise man's choice. That's because he already knows that the day is going to be hard and, honestly, there is no need to let the irritation set in so early in the morning. He shrugged and shoved icy hands deeper into his pea coat pockets. The cold was remorseless. Brutally so. Undoubtedly, there was a definite hint of miserable grimness in frosty morning, since it made an astute pact with the wind today. And the main target has been achieved as all the sane population was driven away from the streets into the warmth and safety of their respective homes. One might assume that it's too cold for homicide. And one will be wrong.

He quickly approached his car and hastened to slide into the driver's seat.

Splendid. No gloves in the car. That means that either he's lost them elsewhere or they are still lying on the drawer. On the drawer in his warm, cozy flat. This fact alone makes the day even more promising — dully muses he, checking the phone for new messages. None. This is good. It means that they are not that late.

True to his word, because Erik Lehnsherr is the most meticulous specimen Charles has ever met, the door opened just on time. Charles stifled the beginnings of the smile, which threatened to break through the hardly maintained façade. He is, perhaps, the only person in the precinct who finds Erik Lehnsherr slightly amusing. And that is a really curious exception, if you take into consideration their senior detective's well-known temper, and that probably means that there is something wrong with Charles himself.

"Are we waiting for anyone else?"

"No, sorry. Of course, we don't." Charles mentally chided himself — good god, he must have spaced out for a moment. And after he started the car, it seemed only logical to divert the conversation back to something that troubled him since he tried to call Erik numerous times this morning and never succeeded.

"I tried calling. Is something wrong with your phone?"

"It was… off," came the reply and Charles has forgotten for the moment that he was driving and stared at his partner's impassive face, trying to discern the origin of the pause at the end of the phrase.

"Well, I see," he murmured, mainly to himself, because the other passenger of the car was currently immersed in looking through the folder Charles has previously decided to study at home. Damn. What's wrong with him today…

"You do know what they say about taking important case files for home-reading, Xavier," lazily drawled Erik.

"Er… Y-yes," Charles cringed when he felt the tell-tale heat rush to his face, and was furious with himself for blushing, "but I swear that I just…"

"The reason for the recently established rule is quite trivial. Last year, before your transfer, someone has decided to share the confidential information with the press. As the result, we had a suicide, provoked by a rather controversial article, and in its turn followed by the infamous unrest among immigrants," that cool, calm and collected manner always unbalances Charles in the strangest of ways by default. And right now, there is no mistaking that sensation, so edgy and so subtle, and so full of inner turmoil.

"It will never happen again," Charles was merely surprised how firmly he sounded.

"I really don't care," smirked his boss, paused, and looked sideways at him, something akin to mischievous delight instantly flashed through his eyes. "You'd better concentrate on not getting caught."

Then he turned away, relocating his gaze to the photo of the victim and Charles decided that he was imagining things.

He focused his attention on the road and the next question jolted him.

"So, has your home-reading proved productive?"

"Oh," Charles hesitated. "Right. About that. We've got the evidence of the struggle in the apartment, a mess in the kitchen, a few broken glasses, although killer left no trace — it would seem, she's let this person in herself. Neighbors didn't hear anything except loud music, not the best of the diversions, but it worked in that case. Miss Miller has been stabbed with her own kitchen knife; nothing's stolen, but, well, probably the killer took her mobile — we never found it in the first place. Rather bizarre, isn't it? The problem of determining the motive, on the other hand, is quite possibly the crucial issue. Was it really an angry boyfriend or just a random conversation with a neighbor gone badly?"

"A neighbor?" echoed Erik, but Charles was too far gone to be discouraged.

"That was Sean's idea. Worth checking out, but I sincerely doubt it'll prove fruitful. Yesterday, when I was looking through the photos I noticed that the victim's body, when it has been discovered, thankfully undisturbed… It was so gracefully arranged, I'd say she had been laid down with the utmost care and intent… as if…" he paused. "It seems to me that the killer took his time to arrange the body in the definite way and take care of the evidence. It doesn't fit with the supposed motive. Enraged lover would have only rushed it."

"A brilliant deduction."

By the tone of detective's voice Charles couldn't figure out whether he was laughed at or complimented.

"Sometimes a crime of passion is just a crime of passion," remarked Erik.

Yeah, Charles had to bit his lip to suppress the sarcastic reply; deduction rarely comes into play in the actual work in this division.

It was a small park in the residential district, located on the outskirts of a city, a piece of greenery in summer but even better characterized as the onslaught spot for dogs and their owners in every season. That's why Charles was partly ready that even at this unholy hour the stone walkway to the crime scene would be jammed with onlookers.

Lehnsherr looked over at the crowd, let out a half-audible groan and Charles realized without any words what he is going to ask. Better skip the argument.

"I'll deal with it," he offered a reassuring smile and got a frown in return.

"You'd better," Erik squinted at a crowd behind his back and added, "Watch out. Don't forget what they write in those books."

"Sorry?"

"The killer comes back to watch, seeking for attention and driven by the unconscious urge to be caught."

"This is a quote from the TV show," hummed Charles under his breath, and bristled when the detective waved him aside.

"Don't let them take pictures, Xavier."

And how do you want me to do it?

In effect, Charles had certain crowd-control training and lack of experience in this sphere he compensated with the rather strong desire to demonstrate the certain police officer that there are no matters which couldn't be addressed by peaceful, legal means.

He's talking on the autopilot, eyes trained on people standing behind the yellow stripe, when the detective's words suddenly spring to his mind._Comes back to watch._ Really?

"…No, I don't think so. You shouldn't cross the line before the experts finish their work," he noticed the elderly woman with the dog, she was watching him with unsettling fond expression and looked to his right, where the man in the red jacket was talking on the phone, smiling. Two girls from the front row giggled and one whispered something to her friend, the puffs of white warm breath looked like surrealistic mist, mixing with the grays of the new born day. They looked at him through the haze of their claims, of their natural curiosity, so uncalled for, that he had to utter a few more words and, maybe for the first time in his not so long detective career, retreated to look at the actual victim with more vigor than ever.

"Morning, Charles!" Moira smiled at him over her shoulder and gestured to the dark body bag on the ground, thankfully zipped up. "Care to take a look?"

"No, thank you," he shook his head, though inwardly agreed that this was hardly a display of professional behaviour.

Moira nodded as if nothing has happened and continued the interrupted explanation.

"Death caused by asphyxia, scratches on both hands — she was probably still fighting for some time. What else?"

"The estimated time of death?" asked Erik, stepping to the side, so that Moira's assistants could move the body.

"Under normal circumstances I'd say from four to six hours ago, but that's what we have laboratory for, for further expertise. Come after lunch and maybe I'll tell you."

"I'll send someone," grumbled Erik and strolled away.

"Thank you too," huffed Moira and by one glance at her smirk no one would question her attitude towards the person whose retreating back the words were addressed to.

"They should grant your team some sufficient fringe benefits for working under this guy."

"You must be exaggerating," Charles tried for calm voice. "Boss is not that bad. Today, we've almost had an entire conversation on the way here."

"You did?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, that's certainly better than it was in the beginning when he barely talked to you at all."

The reminder stung. And not because Moira was blatantly right, but because Charles has his own doubts whether the situation has improved.

"Listen, Charles, I never meant to offend you," she took off her latex gloves and gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder, as if really felt that he was somehow upset.

"It's fine," he shrugged, and tried to flex and unflex his frozen fingers. Experimentally.

Moira noticed and, by the expression of her face, intended to ask him a question he didn't want to answer right now.

"I have to go. Or he will be mad."

"Then go," said she. "And don't forget about the lunch tomorrow."

"How can I?"

"We've established that you can. And, in fact, you do it pretty often."

"Guilty as charged," he made a helpless gesture. "However, the…"

"Relax, I'm well aware of the perks of this job," she sighed. "Take care, Charles."

"You too. And thank you."

"What for? Thanks are demanded from Lehnsherr."

Passing the crowd on his way to the parking lot, he noticed that it has grown larger. As it has become apparent that there had been a murder, the reporters also joined the party. Somehow, one girl with long blond hair looked familiar, until she nudged the guy with the camera and they disappeared among other people and Charles, losing track of her, forgot about a vague feeling altogether.

It appeared he was early. Detective Lehnsherr was nowhere in sight and Charles knew where he could be found. He was walking around the perimeter, 'smelling the prey' as often joked Logan, and Charles had to agree with the man this time, albeit involuntary. Erik didn't like anyone tailing him, grumbling that the presence of others disturbs his thinking. Charles thought that he was just being ridiculous and followed him nonetheless. After all, he had to learn somehow and by writing numerous reports and consuming all available theory on the subject of crime he couldn't do it. Today is an exception. He rubbed his hands together till he regained feeling in his fingers, mentally readying himself for rebuke.

Detective Lehnsherr never failed to surprise him. Charles should have known better.

The door has opened and something deliciously warm was thrust into his hands. Charles reacted instinctively and grasped the paper cup before the steamy contents get closely acquainted with his pants.

I must be still dreaming, he thought, staring at the finely chiselled profile of his boss.

"Thank you," he breathed out and added, "sir." Just to be on the safe side.

Lehnsherr gave him a funny look but said nothing.

The coffee was gorgeously smooth and sweet, the flavor of vanilla gave it the new edge in deliciousness. Charles wouldn't lie if he had to admit that this was the best coffee in the world.

They finished their drinks in silence.

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"Xavier."

The folder from before fell on his desk and had nearly slid from the pile of paperwork had he not managed to catch it in time.

"Jane Miller. Now it's all yours."

"What…"

"Your case, since earlier you've demonstrated such a preference to it," Erik's face was blank as ever.

"But I've already scheduled a meeting… today's murder…"

"Well, then, I'm sure, you can easily manage both," with this Erik finally looked at the desk and noticed the scattered papers. "What's this? Suddenly developed fondness for old records?"

"In some way," he fetched the folder and followed Lehnsherr to his office.

Angel's incredulous look could burn a hole in his back.

Office was, maybe, a too big word for such a small room, but it was a separate room nevertheless, with a desk and three chairs, too innovatively designed to be comfortable. Charles privately suspected that they have been the ploy to keep the visitors from getting too comfortable in the detective's office. The couch in the corner, though, was old, the brown upholstery a bit battered. It looked so out of place here that Charles wondered whether the detective brought it from home. Probably a heritage — snorted Angel, — and probably the only thing he can fall asleep on. If you know what I mean, she added suggestively.

"What do you want, Xavier?"

Straight to business.

"This case," he put the folder on the desk top and opened it, pointing to the line which has caught his attention. "Nearly twenty years ago a seventeen year old girl was murdered in the exact neighborhood where we've found the body of Jane Miller. By the way, the same district they've discovered a body this morning. Even coincidence doesn't work like that."

"And? This one, she has been strangled, not stabbed," idly observed Erik, pushing the folder to the side, "and, pray, tell me that you're not inventing a serial killer right now or I can as well give it to Cassidy. He, at least, never has weird ideas. For now, enough of this implausible pondering…"

"They never found out who killed her back then, lack of evidence, and here, take a look," Charles resolutely pushed forward the photos of Jane Miller and Katherine Woodworth, deceased 18 years ago, and laid out two pictures together.

Certainly, both victims were found lying on the stomach, face down, long dark waves of hair carefully tucked behind each ear, the separate locks spread like a halo, masterfully framing the deadly stillness. One arm was bent as if the dead person was just peacefully sleeping.

"It's evident, that here we have faced a recognizable pattern."

Lernsherr watched him without uttering a sound and Charles finally stopped talking, wary of the other's unreadable reaction. He was ready to withstand harsh argument or criticism, but the silent treatment was very unnerving. He will show me the door in no uncertain terms, understood Charles. Probably, it was too much. And when he was already mentally packing his stuff, the detective has decided to snap him out of the panicked stupor.

"Sit", he curtly motioned and Charles obeyed, the forceful approach rendering him speechless.

Erik rose from his seat and circled the desk in a few measured steps, all the while moving with admiring predatory grace and so fast, that Charles has almost missed the moment the door has been closed. It assisted in cutting off some of the outside noise. The degree of unease at that moment jumped up exponentially.

"Now," instead of sitting back in his chair he chose the one next to Charles and, moreover, leaned closer, obviously paying no attention to the startling effect that change of dislocation had on Charles.

"Let me tell you something, Xavier. Starting from the beginning, to make it more clear."

Charles nods, not sure what is expected from him.

"Good. As you are well aware, I've became the, hm, the head of division and due to some differences, better say conflicts, with, say, superior establishment only a year ago. I've been working like mad to get this post, because of the reasons you'll never ever get to understand. And just imagine what, or who I find here upon arrival — a lumberjack, a half-deaf pensioner, whose desk you're currently occupying, a girl with the most dubious dress code in the precinct, a four eyes," Charles gasped, remark ready on his tongue, but Lerhnsherr didn't notice or pretended not to notice as he went on.

"… Also a red-head simpleton. Should I mention that all three latter stars are fresh from the Academy… or not? And, of course, our promising reinforcement. Can you already guess?" At this rate the dramatic pause made by the detective did little to save what was left from Charles' self-esteem.

"A rookie. The obnoxious do-gooder reassigned to the division on the coattails of the family wealth, no less. Earning a good start for the political career, I assume…"

"Enough! Stop this!"

Charles suddenly finds himself on his feet. Has he just raised voice against his senior officer? Too afraid to contemplate the consequences of this confrontation he quickly starts with as much conviction as he is able to master at the moment, all the while holding the cold hawk-like gaze:

"Maybe you are correct and also, maybe, you have every right in the world to complain. I can sympathize with your situation. I really do. Obviously, I can only imagine how hard it must be to lead and manage an inexperienced team. But," he stopped to catch a breath, an ugly scratchy feeling settling in his throat, and attempted to reign in his voice, "I'm truly sorry that you don't see how much potential everyone has, how eager we are to learn. And you, with your derogatory… epithets, make no sense at all. Now, if you…" he lowered eyes to the ground, the treacherous voice failing him at the last moment, "…excuse me."

He left the office in an odd blinding daze, unable to see and hear what was going on around. And only came to his senses in the men's room, bracing both hands on the edge of the counter.

Goodness, what have I done… He grabbed the edge of the sink harder and closed his eyes. It didn't help. The residual tremors refused to give up. Oh, sod it! He slowly breathed in and out, willing the tension away. Calm down, get hold of yourself. This is nothing. Nothing, really.

Having opened his eyes, Charles stared right at the pale face and too bright and too blue eyes. Suddenly his own reflection seemed so alien that he casted his gaze to the side, overcame with the urge to hide from that forlorn stare. He reached over to the tap to find a distraction.

Charles left the tap running and watched how the spray was leaving tiny droplets of water on the porcelain surface. Thank god no one is here right now, he thought. And then nearly laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Stop brooding over trivialities when you're going to lose a job.

This day definitely couldn't get worse.

Finally, Charles glanced up at his reflection again, a touch disconcerted to find out that the burning sensation in his eyes was indeed what he thought it was. He took in another deep breath.

Cold water felt amazing on his face. Refreshing.

This episode, which is only a sample of many, he firmly decided, doesn't change anything. Life is as interesting, as pathetic and as wonderful and sorrowful as it has ever been. Everything's all right. Must be.

"Charles! Here you are!"

Upon hearing the familiar voice, he hurriedly wiped his face and turned to look at Hank, who was awkwardly perched in the doorway, seemingly unable to decide where he wants to be.

"Hank," Charles thought that his attempt to smile has officially failed, because Hank was regarding him with alarm all of the sudden.

"Angel told me to check on you. Whether you're okay. Evidently, you are not," said he matter-of-factly and paused to push up the glasses in his usual thoughtful manner.

Charles could only stare, dumbfounded.

Someone cursed and Hank stepped out of the way, muttering apologies when a fat man in the grey working uniform tried to squeeze past Hank through the doorway.

"Come on," Charles straightened and joined Hank in the corridor, the last glance in the mirror proved that he was still deathly pale and looked far from resolute. Sadly enough, it can't be helped.

"I think, Lehnsherr has broken his ash tray after you left."

"The one with an ugly red bird? What made you think so?"

"It was the only thing made of glass in his office and judging by the sound something fragile has smashed into the wall."

"He doesn't even smoke," absently mused Charles. "Why keep it?"

"Perhaps, it was a present. A token? Something he likes… liked to look at."

"Well, thank you, my friend. Now I indeed feel much better," muttered Charles giving Hank a scolding look the other chose to ignore.

He braced himself before opening the doors, but was met with silence.

"Angel is questioning the witness, the one who discovered the body of Anna Jones," explained Hank and added. "They've already talked to relatives… I mean, this morning's murder. Didn't Angel tell you? The victim was a waitress in a night club, took a taxi home. I'm now looking through the footage we've got, from the place where she worked and the taxi driver is also interviewed by Logan. Maybe…"

"Sorry to interrupt, I've just realized that someone needs to go to the Forensics. It's nearly lunch time."

"Sean already left."

"Oh, excellent."

No distractions then.

He nodded to Hank and walked up to the door where the door plate _Lehnsherr E. Senior Detective_ was ominously gleaming, in silent pride, as if daring him to come closer.

"Never ever call me again, got it?"

Charles heard the subdued, very angry voice and mentally cringed. Good god, the eavesdropping, however accidental, wouldn't improve his current situation.

"Don't you dare! Remember what happened to…"

For god's sake! He knocked twice, with confidence he didn't feel and noted, immensely relived, that the conversation ceased completely.

Lehnsherr opens the door and for the impossibly long moment grimly stares at Charles. Two parallel wrinkles crease his forehead, effectively highlighting the tightness around his eyes and overall tired look; the man is wearing his exhaustion like a cape. He really is as intimidating as ever, although, if that look is his armor, it's already stopped striking terror. Evidently, this makes Charles a fool for not noticing sooner and reacting in a more appropriate way, one which doesn't involve bad outbursts. But, being completely fair and pushing initial sympathy aside, Charles does deserve some apologies as well.

"Sir," he will offer the proverbial pipe of peace first, "I came to apologize and say…" Charles mentally braced himself, his words mainly inspired by that silence, when he was interrupted in abrupt fashion.

"Here I thought, you were busy profiling a serial killer," Lehnsherr effectively cut off his speech, living up to his motto — 'I never show emotions ever'. "These are yours," with unreadable face he held out the folders and Charles had to take them, partly to mask a new born bout of anxiety.

"You have a lot of work to do, don't you?"

"I do."

"Okay, what are you waiting for, then?"

"Thank you," he stammered, something giving up in his chest, like a tight string coming loose. All right, it's easier to smile the worries away if it still works, that is.

And he was sort of glad to receive in response to his polite smile that annoyed look, which has done nothing to dispel his previous conclusion. Something else is going on. And, well, anyway Charles is already used to the doors being slammed in his face.

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Angel surprised not only Charles, but even Logan, who was impassively listening to Lehnsherr's routine daily briefing, pretending to take notes and certainly winning the title of the worst pretender ever. Charles knew what kind of sketches the man drew in his notebook. He wished he didn't.

Erik's lips have already formed a thin line, the expression Charles immediately recognized due to previous experience and weeks of careful observations. It was the first warning of the upcoming hurricane.

She stormed through the door, panting, and nearly crushed into Hank, mumbling sorry.

"Salvadore…" Lehnsherr spoke in the uncharacteristically low voice. "What the hell are you doing? Is being late not enough to attract more attention to your highly valuable persona? Well then, will you kindly accept my apologies? We've started without you."

Logan finally looked up. Sean snickered and tried to cover his slip with a too loud cough. And Charles abruptly realized the full extent of sheer horror a resolute, impatient and highly allergic to insolence man like Erik Lehnsherr has to counter every single day. Good god. It must be tough on him.

"Angel, what's the matter?" he calmly asked, praying that Erik didn't terribly mind his interference.

"Jane Miller. He sent pictures to her younger sister! That's why he took her phone… she's lying in a pool of blood there! Christ!" she made a wild gesture.

Logan was the fastest. He quickly grabbed the phone and idly commented, as he eyed the pic:

"Why he? Maybe, this is a female killer."

"No, I don't… Logan!" Charles caught the offered mobile, casually tossed at him, at the last second. Erik moved closer to look, his warm breath tickled Charles' neck where he leaned more into his personal space to squint at the screen. In the meantime, Charles' stupid heart has gone mad, beating high and fast like the unrelenting ticking of a watch under the pillow and he gulped, trying to conceal the involuntary shudder.

"Look, that's it. No text message though…"

"What's wrong with him? And why now?" Angel sinks into the chair, still shaken. "She has been dead for almost a week."

"Why do people desire attention?" carefully treads Charles. "They may exhibit provocative behavior, crave approval and appreciation for the single purpose. If our killer uses murder… murders to draw attention to self…"

"In other words, the bastard wants us to acknowledge him," resumed Erik.

"Murders?" snarled Logan, frowning. "Explain."

Charles pointedly looked at their boss, who, at this rate, shrugged and made a wide, purposefully theatrical gesture.

"Xavier, this is your lucky day. The floor is yours."

I sincerely doubt the former, darkly reflected Charles, as he took a step to the flipchart.

Basically, he told them the same he had told Erik earlier, adding more details. In the light of new development they might prove crucial.

"Suppose he has killed before," Hank stopped the nervous torturing of his pencil, paused, contemplating some idea. "Why start again now? A relapse?"

"Because he is a fucking psycho."

"Thank you, Logan. Couldn't have figured it without you," the whole situation made Charles slightly worked up. He went back to briefing, silently weighing up different bits and pieces of information. "It's… quite possibly a relapse or a drastic change in life, the reasons can be various. Here starts the actual guesswork."

"We'll need more people," said Sean.

Charles couldn't agree more.

Everyone turns to look at Erik, demonstrating a rare miracle of unison.

Detective crosses his arms, and says slowly, deliberate and sarcastic, "We do, Cassidy. We do. But guess what?"

"We're screwed," sagely declared Logan.

"Exactly. Call it what you like, but we ran out of credibility," at the continuing stares, Lehnsherr adds, "Start working! Xavier, you're coming with me."

Charles hurried after him, quickly fetching his coat on the way. He joined Erik on the staircase. The tall, lean detective cut a striking figure as he easily navigated through the hordes of policemen and other people, usually flooding the precinct at this hour; he paid them absolute to no attention and walked like he owned the place. Charles, in his turn, diligently regarded his boss with healthy amount of concern; their morning talk still fresh on his mind. But this is not the reason to make the perceived distance between them bigger; no matter what emotionally toned issues have been still circulating in there.

"We're going to look at the crime scene," Lehnsherr explained, quickly typing something on his mobile, when they reached the parking lot.

"Which one?"

"The closed case. If there's a chance that you're right, I want to see it with my own eyes."

Charles opened the car door, but hesitated for a moment, his curiosity winning short fight with his inner voice, which was persistently telling him to shut up and drive. You don't poke a sleeping dragon in the eye if you have any sense of self-preservation left.

"Now what?" Lehnsherr's pale gaze met his for a brief moment. "Just get in the car," Charles could swear that he saw an eye roll. Even so, there was something in his voice that made Charles do exactly what he asked.

After fastening his seat belt, detective leaned back into the seat, and Charles caught himself staring, not for the first time today.

"What exactly do you want to ask?" generously inquired Erik, letting out a barely audible sigh.

"Well, why suddenly on board with the serial killer idea?" to start with.

"No reason."

"Really?"

"Perhaps, I want to watch you fail."

Charles did laugh then, he always appreciated the ability to make light of otherwise serious subject. Because, certainly, detective must be joking. Lehnsherr was frighteningly good at it, but, strangely enough, nobody shared Charles' opinion on the matter.

"This can be very convenient, Xavier. Like killing two birds with one stone."

"You are so sure that we're going to catch him," wondered Charles, ever mindful of watching the other's expression.

"Definitely. And we will. Before you say anything, think about it. He is practically begging to be put behind the bars. One — the murders are escalating. Two — he took the phone to keep a token, and then decided to use it; it's akin to shouting out loud — "come and get me if you can". A different sort of the game is on. Three — the composure finally began to crack hence the desperate attempt to attract attention."

"It means," Charles felt the urge to lick his lips, since they've suddenly become uncomfortably dry, "he's… going to kill again, and soon."

"That's what we're for — to catch the bastard as fast as possible. One fair warning though: don't overestimate the killer's intelligence. Think of him as your neighbor, for instance. An average person, making average, silly mistakes. True genius in this field is as rare as anywhere else, and if there happens to be one, he is probably already working for the government."

Charles thought this was no great think to ask; that he would most likely get a succinct retort, so curt, it would be bordering on rude, but the great significance of this conversation made him reconsider.

"So, are you ready to pull all nighter?"

"Of course, I do! I used to be a student too, after all. It's okay. I'll stay as long as you need me, sir."

"Too easy..." Lehnsherr sounded disappointed. "Is no one waiting for you at home?" an awkward pause filled the space between them after his remark. Charles refrained from immediate answer; it's not every day that his boss expresses any interest in his personal life.

"I believe, my cat won't mind. She is a lady of independent mind. To be frank, sometimes I wonder if by living with me she does me a huge favor."

"A cat, huh?" hummed Erik and after that slipped into reserved mode again.

And Charles meanwhile felt like he has just passed some test, only the subject in question was not announced.

Under the cool blueness of winter sky, the same park from this morning looked more miserable, as gone were the spooky shadows thrown by the street lights and the gentle morning haze, obscuring most of the litter scattered around the place. This winter is keen on storing snow for another year, it seems. Charles has always thought himself devoid of hopelessly snobbish attitude his mother so desperately tried to implement, and, no need to pretend otherwise, was a little proud of it. But, well, this place was as far from being pleasant as his mother from being an apologist for sobriety. Brocken glass and other hardly identified evidence of civilized leisure cracked loudly under his feet when he followed the detective, who strolled straight through the poorly kept shrubbery like unstoppable force of nature, ignoring the walkway and startling small birds while at the same time receiving reproachful stares from some onlookers. And it was not until Charles caught the glimpse of the artificial pond, when he understood where they've been heading to.

Twenty or so years ago there used to be a small river; now the upper riverbed has been severely clogged. With regret, he eyed the area, noting how the trees grew higher comparing to those in the pictures, and the overall subtle yet inevitable change of terrain. All in all, the place was hardly recognizable and he honestly thought that he'd better spend these two hours in the archives, searching for necessary records. A pity, they are not done with the scanning yet. It would make everyone's life a great deal easier.

"Truly excited about real field work, aren't you?" Charles nearly jumped at the abrupt question.

"Oh, no! I don't mind it, sir," it was partially true. Careful, he's stepping into a minefield right now, "But, I can't quite catch up…"

"Look around and tell me what you see."

"Okay," it seems, he's getting the main idea. Charles pushes hands deeper into the pockets, though warmth stubbornly evades his frozen fingers, and again, chasing after the detective almost made him forget how easily he gets cold. "It's April, 15. Harry Winston has found the body early in the morning, when he was jogging despite the rain. Yes, it was always the same route," as Charles has been reciting from memory the whole episode played out before his mind's eye in the scary detail. "Why did he stop then? He told the police that he'd seen a purse, a sparkly thing, difficult to miss, which was lying in the grass. He bent to retrieve it with the most honest intentions; he underlined it several times, thus prompting the detective to check his criminal record. Then, he saw the body; the bushes hid it quite well, perhaps, right here." His feet carry him down the gentle slope, one more step and he'll be standing right on the ice, "The police arrived in an hour. Among the motives, I had, at some point, understood that the officer working at the case, had solemnly concentrated on Mr. Winston. He did have an alibi, however a lot of time was wasted to drag it out of him. If you can count spending all evening and night with his lover, never mind a wife and small child."

"Good. What else?"

"That's the end of it. The victim was a runaway, came to the city three days before the accident, after she had stolen her mother's jewelry and the money saved up for college. Therefore, identifying the body proved problematic."

"What was missing?"

"Hard to say in these circumstances."

"The outcome?"

Charles blinked, only now noticing how close the detective stood, their shoulders lightly brushing together. He averted his eyes to his right, as his excitement has ceased, and found the stillness of frozen water oddly mesmerizing.

"Investigation is in the dead end," continued Charles in a lowered voice, "As far as I can judge, the leading detective's career — in stalemate."

"Funny, how the story repeats itself," mused Erik, lifting up his coat collar to protect himself from the stinging wind.

"Not this time." It came out quiet and not as certain as Charles meant it to be, but it was still something.

Erik smirked in response. At least he's not denying that he'd heard him, which was an amazing breakthrough as far as Charles was concerned.

"So, how does a three-dimensional thing feel?"

"Rather inspiring, thank you. If not for the weather, I might have developed a genuine preference to it."

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Enough has been seen today and it's clearly proved to be useful, decided Charles, fostering some warm, deeply seated conviction that they're finally moving in the right direction. He immersed himself into the study of the old case, reread all the forensics reports and even went to see Moira for a small consultation, thus earning a well-deserved headache. If they were lucky… No, fortune is a devious lady. If they try hard, this might be the shortest serial killer chase in the history of this city. Deeply absorbed in his thoughts Charles successfully maneuvered through the corridor, until he was half way out of the doors down the hall. The doors in question opened with a bang and he was suddenly greeted with an armful of blond hair and expensive perfume. He immediately took two steps back, attempting to steady his stance.

That was the girl from this morning and she has just sworn in Logan's fashion, while crouching down to pick up the bag she dropped.

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" Charles made an attempt to help, but she cheerfully remarked in response, "Worry not! Hope, they will burn the fucking doors one day."

She straightened and grinned, grabbing his hand and demonstrating a very unladylike clutch. Close up, she looked even lovelier.

"I'm Raven!"

"Charles. Nice seeing you again, Raven." He replied and after noticing how she widened her eyes at him, dutifully clarified. "You're a reporter. I've seen you on the crime scene this morning."

"Oh! And that makes you a detective, right?" she smiled sweetly and cocked an eyebrow in question, looking as if they were sharing a private joke.

"So it does," Charles was not usually prone to bouts of suspicion, but something nagged at him, like a faraway whisper, some doubt, which was too miniscule to be expressed in words. She's just flirting and I've had a long day, he finally settled on a satisfactory conclusion.

"Remembering the names of all my acquaintances is a life-saver sometimes," she went on chatting, when meanwhile Charles was idly contemplating the ways of tactical, but subtle retreat. He doesn't want to offend anyone. The time's not right, that's all.

"Take detective Lehnsherr, for instance…"

"Do you know him?" this casual mentioning of the man's name draws Charles' attention back.

"Indeed!"

Suddenly, she is frowning at something behind his back, the corners of lush mouth curled in dry amusement. Completely unexpectedly she leans closer, cloaked in sweet odor, and Charles thinks _lilacs_, before he realizes what is going on, but she only smirks and slides a simple white card into his suit jacket's pocket. "By the way, I like tweed. So classy."

Then she mouthed _call me_ and was off.

Charles turns around, dreading to see the person approaching him, intent on prolonging the blissful ignorance evaporating like beer usually does in Logan's presence. For him, the steady, deliberate steps echoing in the hall are reminiscent of doom personified. Truth be told, he could recognize Erik coming for his soul from the other side of the building. This unlikely connection, or whatever it is between them, often saves their team a trouble.

Raven miraculously disappeared from the sight, which was a smart decision and left Charles one on one with the detective.

"What did I do wrong this time?" upon seeing the murderous expression, Charles went for the direct approach.

For a moment Erik looked almost undeceive, but only for a moment.

"Xavier, follow me. We need to talk."

"Excuse me?" now it was Charles' turn to be bewildered. "Miss Miller is already waiting for us."

"Nothing to worry about. She can wait if she really wants us to find the man who killed her sister." He pushed the door to the conference room open and waited, impatience making him appear even more homicidal than a moment ago.

No, absolutely not. Unless…

"Charles," he simply said, "please, I need you to listen to what I have to say. In private."

There was no need, however, for Erik to extend his plea; as soon as Charles heard him calling his name, he, and never mind the general oddity of the situation, was instantly ready to agree to anything the other might ask of him. Shoving this scary realization to the far, dark corner of his mind, Charles nodded and, with a sudden impulse smiled at Erik, when he stepped into the room.

"What did she tell you?" Erik shut the door and was effectively looming over him, unashamedly using their height difference to his own advantage.

"Nothing! Oh, for god's sake!" he gulped, although when he met Erik's shrewd gaze, he did not back down. "Provided you tell me why the small talk is now equivalent to crime… Who knows, it may throw a new light on the ordinary exchange."

"Stay away from her."

"Are you going to provide me with anything more sufficient than simple words? As much as I trust your judgment, sir, I can't tell someone off just because…"

Lehnsherr pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something, which sounded like _stubborn idiot_. Charles politely pretended to ignore it, feigning somewhat strained nonchalance.

"She is one of the most dangerous predators I know," his words bore strong conviction, more forceful than before. That and Erik's hand moving to grasp Charles' forearm were, in combination, something that never should have happened. In a heartbeat, the half-heard call, which Charles so casually dismissed, surfaced to the forefront of his mind together with the story he was told in the car earlier this morning.

"Are you in trouble? Can I help?" the questions slipped out before he had a chance to contemplate a situation carefully. All right, at least Erik's earnest astonishment, when he heard Charles was definitely worth it.

"Seriously?! Seriously! You, damn it… But, I guess, nobody is able to pretend that well…" instead of continuing the sentence Erik studied his expression for a while, as Charles obediently remained perfectly still, used to being scrutinized like that. Good god, but Lehnsherr has, in fact, trained him well.

"Just be careful," he shook his head, regarding Charles with consideration, a little mingled with concern. "Remember what I said."

He brushed past, reaching for the door handle, so Charles had to step to the side.

"That's all?"

"Precisely."

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After his offer to bring coffee was quietly declined_, _Charles started apologizing for being late, his major excuse — he and detective Lehnsherr had a very urgent matter to attend to. While Erik was sitting in his chair perfectly unapproachable and unbiased, Charles, as always, resisted the temptation to nudge him. Interrogating the convict is one thing, but talking to the victim's family is a different matter. And somehow it became the routine occurrence in their teamwork, and to call this sort of coexistence unusual would be a serious underestimation. Shortly afterwards the very start of his work in the division, he had been more than eager to step into a trap of his own making. He often reflects, especially during sleepless nights, how his first instinct — to console, to soothe the grief and worry backfires, draining him beyond limits the human heart is able to withstand. If not for his ill-timed solitude, maybe, with the understanding someone, actually present in his life, he would cope just okay.

Nevertheless, here he is, trying to comfort the girl, whose grief was so artless, one is probably able to see the imperceptible pain she bore within, wrapped up around her like a transparent cocoon. Charles could tell that she was already out of tears, as she carried herself almost too evenly and though her eyes were observing the detectives with detachment, the expression was no longer as lost as it used to be.

"Amanda," he gently says, "Thank you for coming. Did you manage to do what I asked?"

"Yes, of course. Please, take it," she produced the sheets of paper from her bag and Charles pulled them to him. They were folded in half, the corners slightly worn. There were names written in column, together with addresses and, in some cases, phone numbers.

"What you asked… People she trusted enough to let them into the flat," she was holding onto her bag like a lifeline, "At least, here are some friends, acquaintances, um, colleagues from the office, well, and her exes I'm aware of. Since I received, uh, sorry, I mean, since I moved to another city we, you know, it was never the same."

Erik steps in, asking the questions, determined and articulate — checking out every person on the list, and Charles barely manages to conceal his sigh, either full of unspoken gratitude or deep frustration, again, the latter mainly directed at himself. Amanda gave him a weird look and it most definitely didn't ease his conscience.

Later, when the official part was over, and his boss was already out of the door, Amanda lingered in the doorway, while Charles was busy collecting the photos and stuffing them in the correct order into the dossier. Damn it, Erik never waits for him, unless obliged by a very pressing necessity. But he has got the superior rank, which he shamelessly exploited every time he could.

"Excuse me, detective Xavier," she was so quiet that at first Charles failed to respond, and felt badly startled when he realized she was repeating his name for the second time.

"I do apologize. This is a hellish hard day," he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to calm down the racing heart, with clumsy awkwardness, which was very hard to miss.

"I understand," the ghost of the smile graced her pale lips and Charles brightened up at that, if only a little. "I-um, I want to ask… Will you do me a favor and accompany me home? It's too late already and…"

Together, they simultaneously looked at the plain clock hanging on the wall. Oh, it's a quarter to nine, and Charles' mind, always full of different business, analyzing the new facts, mentally cataloguing the people from the list and searching for clues and the best ways to exploit them, never registered that fact. Good god, the time. And he made the poor girl wait. What a shame!

"Of course, I'll drive you home," he nodded and then faltered, so absorbed in his inner monologue that he has forgotten about the simple fact that happens to influence his life a lot these days. "Will you wait in the hall, miss? I need to put this back where it belongs," meaning _I have to ask my boss first_ as he grasped the dossier.

"Okay. Thank you so much, sir."

"It's Charles. And don't even mention it. After all, it's our fault for asking you to stay and answer those endless questions till the dark."

On the way back, Charles went through a couple of ideas how to make his promise to drive miss Miller home known and avoid a flat look, accompanied by the suggestion to concentrate on his present job, not the noble occupation of the driver for distressed ladies, although Erik was never ashamed to use Charles as such. To point out that hypocrisy means to become engaged in another verbal sparring.

Erik was standing in the center of the room, eyeing every tired and reluctant face with a supercilious air, barking out orders, managing to sound more energetic than humanly possible, especially when everyone else was actively anticipating overtime, hardly the reason to feel vigorous.

"Cassidy, you're responsible for the first twenty people on the list. Make it quick, I want every possible connection to be studied with maximal precision."

"On it," grumbled Sean, already reaching for the receiver.

"Salvadore, the rest of the list is yours," Angel clearly wanted to object, but then nodded and took the offered copy.

"What about me?"

"McCoy, I've got tons of footage for you. The boxes are in my office. Enjoy!"

"Can I…"

"I don't need to know what you want to ask to tell you that no, you can't. Where is Logan?" now Erik is looking directly at him and Charles has to react, though he doesn't understand why he is always the one being interrogated on the subject of others' absence, it's not as if he has a magic radar to locate necessary people. Well, only his boss.

"Right here!" the door banged and the heavy hand clapped Charles on the shoulder as the owner of said hand groaned, half-mockingly, "Missed me, kids?"

He smelled like frost and bitter smoke and one didn't need to be a genius to tell that Logan was ignoring Erik's no-smoking rule again, but even when Charles brought the issue up earlier, in the private conversation with the man, he was laughed at and told that Lehnsherr wouldn't get rid of Logan in any case. Charles resumed, that some people just adopted recklessness as a lifestyle. Who was he to judge, indeed.

Charles thought that he was done standing here and anyway, Erik needed a distraction right now, so he quickly said, making the sentence sound like a lame hybrid between a question and a statement.

"Miss Miller asked to give her a lift home, I mean, to drive her home, since it's so late and she is clearly afraid even if doesn't want to admit it…"

"So?" oh, goodness, would it kill you to simply let me go, silently pleaded Charles.

"Hope, you said yes, Xavier," Logan laughed, nodding approvingly, "After all, we don't want you to die untouched and pure. Oh fuck! Man, don't be mad," he groaned after Charles elbowed him, hard.

"I'll pretend that this minute never happened," Erik made a meaningful pause.

"Okay," Charles stepped forward. "Sir, miss Miller asked me to accompany her home. I agreed. Promise, it won't take long."

"Sure, it won't," mumbled Logan behind his back, but Charles chose to ignore him.

"All right. Talk to her, maybe she'll remember something useful," recapped Erik.

"Charles," whispered Sean, and like every one of his trademark whispers it came out as a barely muffled scream, "Don't forget about pizza! Pretty please!"

"Of course," he took his keys and coat, checking for the wallet. The badge? Yes, here it is. But something was missing. For god's sake, this is only for an hour or so.

"Have a productive time," he smiled when Angel rolled her eyes at him and Sean sighed, the act prompting a small whirlwind on his desk.

At least, Amanda still had faith in him and didn't leave, obediently waiting for Charles. Only when he started the car, Charles realized what exactly he forgot and groaned, probably startling Amanda. His gun. Well, he didn't like the thing in the first place, but Erik insisted, more fastidious than ever when it came to weaponry.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, it's nothing. Where to?"

When she told the address, Charles managed to blurt out, "You stay in your sister's flat?" and was immediately struck by the inane stupidity, and wished for the earth to swallow him whole.

"I have nowhere else to go," Amanda offered levelly, without self-pity, never diverting eyes from the window on her side. There was a story here, behind these words, but it was not the one she would willingly share with a stranger.

"I am sorry. For everything you've been through."

"You, detective, of all people who approach me with condolences, are the only one who sounds sincere," Charles kept silent, for lack of better words or any words at all.

"Can I turn on the radio?" she inquired after a while.

"Yes, of course. Music is free tonight," well, that came out bad, but Amanda seemed immune to his slips. Music poured in like weightless mist, and for the rest of the way became the steady third presence, contemporary symphony fitting in the quiet atmosphere with utmost precision.

The apartment complex loomed over the area; hardly a landmark, nevertheless, horrendously distinctive, if you appreciate grey and red, currently black in the surrounding darkness, but still standing out, due to tiny dots of light illuminating it's otherwise gloomy façade.

"I'll see you to your flat," determinedly stated Charles, ready for possible objections.

"There's no need," Amanda cocked her head to the side, watching him with the sort of resigned expression Erik develops from time to time in his presence, "but you've made up your mind."

"You may say so. Yes."

The trip to the sixth floor was uneventful. Charles has been there before, he didn't like the place then; it had the most unfriendly feeling to it one could imagine and not because of the lower socioeconomic area it belonged to. There was a bad vibe to it; Charles was always sensitive to this stuff.

When she pushed the door open, there was a moment of brief hesitation, but after she turned around it was gone, like a breeze.

"You've been so kind! Thank you, Charles. Can I offer you tea or coffee as means of compensation for you time?"

"I'm afraid, my boss will bury me alive if I don't return soon. Thank you, but, unfortunately, I do have a lot of work to do."

"Okay, then."

"Goodnight."

The muffled click of the lock has told Charles that he's officially done here. He slowly approaches the door to the staircase and it gives it, letting him observe freshly painted walls already covered by merely gauche attempts at street art and dusty, dirty steps, decorated with occasional cigarette butts. He sighs — probably, elevator would've been better. At least, it would definitely be faster.

Therefore, the staircase was not completely abandoned. Charles heard heavy steps before he saw the person walking up the stairs. Indeed, it was a man; he was coming up closer to where Charles stood, head hung low, black, knit skull cap must be partly obscuring his vision. Just at that moment, when Charles so prudently decided that the blatant staring was totally not respectful and in this place could easily transform into violence, their eyes met, and Charles, on the spot, _saw_. The intent, such as he had never seen before, it seemed surreal that the moment stretched like perpetuity; however exaggerated that notion may appear. _Extraordinary_, he thought. So, that's how it happens. And when the silent spell disintegrated it took Charles rationality down as well.

"Sir, I'm detective Xavier. Currently, we're investigating the murder in this area," Charles reached for the badge, and took a step down, taut like wire ready to snap.

What he didn't expect, as it occurred illogical to him, was for the man to rush not down the stairs but up and Charles halted, losing the precious moment. The man bodily slammed him into the wall so that the echo ricocheted along the staircase. Charles managed to catch his hand in a tight grip, groaned in pain, when the fist connected with his side. He was about to twist the man's hand and cease the struggle and almost made it, but then, his foot slipped off the step. Charles grabbed for his opponent's jacket to maintain balance, but the other pushed him away, hard. Going down surely hurt like nothing else.

His head pounded, vision blurring around the edges; when he opened his eyes everything was dancing, hypnotic, the dark ominous figure swelling and twisting, but undeniably approaching closer and closer.

Dimly, he struggled to move, the stupid _till the last ounce of strength_ line mutedly circulating in his head, making the exceedingly nauseating vertigo stronger. The darkness was grave and stifling like bottomless waters, tasted like the deepest sorrow as it welcomed him in.

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From all Charles had heard and read before, he reflected, in a rare moment of arrogance, that he knew the ways of depravity and was aware of truly atrocious deeds one is capable of, but, it must be mentioned, has never imagined that he would experience it himself. The entire idea of wickedness, distant and impersonal, seemed absurd — no person in the sane mind ever contemplates it with gravity, which real life deserves, because each individual is always harboring a selfish hope that all horrible things, occurring in the world, would never touch the observer, that the reader or the viewer is always protected. Of course, this is nonsense. No one is actually safe.

Again, to be completely fair, different unfortunate accidents, injuries and possible harm are listed in his job description, so he shouldn't be complaining in any case.

Charles was not satisfied with this reasoning, but he was still at a loss to understand what was going on around. Maybe, mulling over things will help to ease up a headache, perhaps, this is his way of coping with a post-traumatic stress.

Awareness comes back slowly, in tiny bits, very unwillingly, until finally the thick fog around his senses dissipates a little and Charles can finally feel and hear. Immediately, he groans, unable to stifle the pained sound, but it hurts like hell — his arms being extended over shoulders, forcibly stretched, wrists tightly tied together above his head. And it appears even breathing hurts, as soon as he discovers that a deep exhale feels so painful he almost sobs and has to bit his lip to suppress the undignified whimper; while the circumstances of his current predicament cause his heart to sink, as uncontrollable terror brutally kicks in, the pressure of it so stifling that Charles absolutely forgets how to breath. Ironically it may appear, but it's the unbelievably familiar command that helps him to fight the sensation, the calm voice, so like Erik's sternly informing him —_you're in shock_, _you need to snap out of it right now, otherwise it will get worse._He clenches his teeth, determined, listening to the mantra, repeated in Erik's steady voice over and over and thinks that he certainly wants to hear that voice again, and, with this in mind, the fear diminishes, not disappearing completely, but, for now, leaving him with the hard-won ability to reason.

At this instant, he can attempt to fully access the surroundings, for he suspected very well who has tied him up, but had no idea how long he was out of it and where he was. So, Charles tried to open his eyes just a little. At first, in the twilight, all he sees is a grey concrete wall opposite him: across it is the wide line of pale glow, coming from the open door. After his vision slightly adjusts, he cautiously looks around: the room he was left in looks like a basement, not big, he squinted at something dark on his left — probably a pile of boxes, though it's very difficult to say in this dim light. The place's surely cold like basement and the chill seeps into his back, where the only barrier between his skin and concrete wall is the fabric of his shirt.

It occurs to him that at some point he started shivering and couldn't stop. All nerves in his body are alight with ache. All right, Charles wills himself to concentrate on his breathing, however unpleasant the process is, and attempts to finally come to terms with this regrettable predicament. His entire body is stretched — from bound hands to his feet, as Charles is only barely standing on the ground, arms already numb, but he stubbornly tries to move his fingers. To make it worse, Charles suddenly becomes hyperaware of how exposed and helpless he feels, as shame digs her sharp teeth into him, sucking out the remains of composure. _Calm down, damn it_ — he announces to no one in particular and maybe even aloud, impossible to say with that wild maelstrom of voices in his head.

First of all, he needs to free his hands, though it may take some time. Also, Charles doesn't believe that his judgment is sentient to the full extent right now, but, it seems that he cracked a couple of ribs and earned a concussion. Worse things happened to people who fell down the stairs, so he might consider himself lucky that he hasn't, say, broken his neck. So far, everything ought to heal. Secondly, his coat, suit jacket and all other possessions are missing. At least, the killer has not got his claws on his gun: Charles feels oddly pleased and particularly worried at that, because Erik will surely skin him alive for sidestepping the rule. In case, Erik gets to him it before the killer, that is. And here comes the last issue Charles desperately tries not to think about. The harsh reality is that he's stuck somewhere in the cold creepy place with the man, who, he estimates, is not going to let him go if asked politely, while being completely defenseless, injured, terrified and all on his own. Oh joy, he thinks viciously as a shiver rocks his body, apparently, realizing the full extent of the problem doesn't help to solve it.

At precisely this moment, he hears the distinct sound of approaching footsteps. He doesn't have much time to get ready to whatever is going to happen, because the shadow appears in the doorway shortly afterwards, cutting off what poor light Charles has in here. It's no use to pretend that he's still unconscious since with the way he's panting and struggling for every breath, he can fool only someone totally deaf.

I need to figure him out. Preferably, before he kills me.

The man turns the switch with a loud click: a light bulb comes to life accompanied by reluctant buzz, flickering for a few times before evening out. Charles shifts a little at that, and shuts his eyes. As expected, the movement jostles his body and sharp bout of pain flashes through taut arms and echoes somewhere in the back of his head.

The fact that the man hasn't immediately moved registered only later. Charles blinked, chasing away dots and colorful flashes in front of his eyes. Then, he lifts his head slightly, to look up at the man — tall, definitely taller than Charles, blond, well-build. He must be in his early forties right now, assumes Charles, and idly wonders what the hell was he thinking when he came to the conclusion that he could overpower this typical beefy wrestler.

When the man finally moves forward, Charles makes himself observe his every move vigilantly and nearly laughs, only the realization that he's in mortal danger doesn't let him fall straight into hysterics, as he, indeed, spots a sewed-on piece on the man's breast pocket, which reads _V. Greed_in big, crude letters.

_Bugger me_, dryly muses Charles, here's an individual who kidnaps a police officer wearing his own working uniform with his name on it. Unless, this is a clever trick. Wait a moment, he knows that name. The one which was nagging at him with persistence ever since he'd read the report. Which one? Was this name on the list? No, it wasn't — Charles remembers it clearly, despite the headache. It doesn't mean anything. Focus! And, besides, Amanda underlined, that she and her sister were not so close anymore. Woodworth, nineteen year old case. Goodness, that's where he saw that name. She lived next door to Winston, she was the one who told the detective about Henry Winston's "suspicious departures" at night. Victoria Greed. Her son? Most likely.

"Could you tell me what time is it?" Charles asks civilly, though there is a terrible rasp in his voice.

"Huh?"

A pity, Charles couldn't enjoy the precious confusion longer than for a couple of seconds. In a moment, the assumed killer was on him, squeezing his throat.

The only thing Charles is able to distinguish is fear — it feels like a squirming snake in the pit of his stomach, which then wraps itself around his chest, constricting, as the man's face starts swimming before him. Not enough air. He thrashes, instinctively trying to kick Greed, but it is akin to attacking a stone fortification barehanded; his head gets slammed back into the wall with impressive force, so that pain bursts anew like a supernova, and Charles panics — I can't, I'm going to die, until he feels the pressure on his throat easing, all of the sudden.

The man swears and pushes away from him.

Charles almost forgets how to breathe again: his entire body is shaking when he begins to cough, nearly choking, as tears, hot and bitter, stream down his face. Charles feels dizzy, still unable to draw in breath of much needed air. Right now, he cares neither about the killer nor about the pathetic state he is in, whilst he struggles on the verge of passing out.

"Today, I saw you and your buddy in the park," the man hisses, voice low and menacing.

He leans in, too close, _too bloody close_, and grips Charles' hair, cranes his neck, forcing his head up. Charles swallows a sob and slams his mouth shut. Maybe, he's wrong, but as soon as Greed breaks him or finds him useless, he is as good as dead. Must keep him entertained.

With hardly maintained defiance, Charles looks straight into dark eyes, a venture in itself, and, recalling the events of the day, only feels a profound relief. No despair, no desire to outwit the enemy, just honest relief. Straining not to break into tears, he breathes heavily through his nose, some part of him already used to constant chest pain. Obviously, he's screwed, but he prevented another meaningless death tonight. He did.

"Have to do my job," he pants, gaze steady.

Greed frowns.

"What were you looking for?" he asks blankly.

"Nothing in particular. Just looking around," says Charles, without any change of tone.

"You're lying," Greed becomes irritated in no time. Those mood swings are extremely charming, aren't they — comes a sinister thought.

"I'm not!" vehemently denies Charles and quickly adds, "By the way, my condolences."

"How do you know that my mum died?"

Because, you've just told me, you dummy. So far, his previous conclusions considering Greed's personality have been accurate.

"Don't lie to me!" he punctuates every word with a tug, and Charles feels incredible worry aside from the sharp pain in his scalp — surely, earlier the man's demonstrated a distinct fascination with hair.

"I don't lie to you!" he cried out. "I only recently became a detective. I was just following my boss," at least he doesn't need to fake tears as they appear right on the clue.

"I want to talk to him, then," finally he lets go of Charles, after a moment's thought.

"Erik won't listen to you," stammers out Charles and freezes, petrified. Goodness! No, not this.

"But he will listen to you," Greed leers, undeniably satisfied with himself, jerking his head to the door. "I'll be back soon."

Half-heartedly, Charles tugs at the rope, binding his hands. If only he could get more leverage, he would be able to do something, anything. What time is it, really? This is very important. Do Erik and the others know that he's missing? And if yes, what course of action will they take upon determining that he's disappeared? Charles has reasons for thinking that Erik is going to be furious. Naturally, he will break something again, with a pang of regret concludes Charles, and he finds it hard to deduce who is going to placate Erik, if Charles is not around anymore. Well, this is a tricky question. To pursue this mystery has something of the salvation for him, lulling him into peaceful wondering, full of broken ash trays and hot coffee in paper cups, spontaneous arguing, occasional smirks and, sometimes, odd, thoughtful sideways glances he pretends not to notice.

So completely was he absorbed in his musing, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, that the awakening was sudden, and made much havoc within the fragile equilibrium of his mindscape. The next minute Greed appeared in the periphery, walking towards Charles, the poker in one hand and what looked like Charles' phone in another.

Charles' attention mainly centered on the iron poker. Given that Greed had a safety glove on, and of course, because the bastard had decided that strangling him was not enough, the iron length was emitting potent orange glow. You're kidding, with tiresome resignation decided Charles. This is only a terrible, sick joke.

"Nine missed calls, two texts and a voicemail," he unceremoniously shoved the phone Charles in the face, gloating, and, there, his eyes concentrated on the screen, where the time was displayed in generously big figures — eleven and a half.

Charles achieved the state that may be safely called the threshold of sanity, fairly out of it by now.

"Erik, is it?" with each exhale Greed's breathing pattern accelerated, the sign of excitement — Charles' ever observant mind supplied.

Then, he pushed the button.

And, of course, Charles screamed.

Sharp, scorching pain left his right side on fire and now he feels as if he's being submerged into a blood-red sea, to him, it seems hot and cold at the same time as he loses ability to see and hear. Again. Until the voice, the one persistently telling him not to black out, returns. Gradually, slowly, the better part of the surroundings comes back in focus, especially the enraged hollering.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, son of the bitch! Fuck! Nobody hangs up on me!" Greed was standing with his back to Charles, the phone crashed beneath his feet, punching the opposite wall in a fit of blind fury.

Pain comes and goes in waves, but Charles refuses to let it dictate him what to do. He lets his body go completely lax, though that, alone, demands lots of concentration as the only thing he's prone to now is moaning and twitching in pain. It's immensely difficult, but he shouldn't aggravate his wounds any more. Despite the cold in the air, sweat pierces his skin like needles; he senses the chilliness of it under his collar, feels it on his back. His shirt sticks to his skin. This depriving discomfort shouldn't concern him now, but it does. Sweat also stings his eyes, unable as he is, to wipe his face.

Erik is amazing. Charles needs to remember, he must thank him afterwards. Attention is the key. If Erik hadn't done that, hanged up, Greed would have proceeded… but Erik hadn't let him. Now, look here, the man is losing it, a condition which renders the big, muscular oaf desperate and pathetic and unable to think.

It seemed as though he forgot about Charles when he rushed out of the room, muttering a string of profanities under his breath.

For the first time since waking up in this residence of torment Charles feels almost inclined to smile. In a gleeful way.

More than anything, Charles becomes interested in the upturned box, lying within inches from him now; the pile has been turned down by Greed himself. Thank you so, so much. Hope does wonderful things to him. The slim chance just by being very close brings forth the energy. So simply, he makes a decision — he wants to get the hell out of here right now.

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When he was finally done with rubbing the rope against the rod it has been fastened to, he couldn't believe it at first. It has taken him ages. It seems, to drag closer the desired box, to balance it and to proceed to the actual work sounds not like a challenge at all. He though that after he has managed the first step, rope was a child's play. No such luck. Greed ties knots like a mature sailor. Accordingly, Charles's spent more than he expected on the seemingly dumb task.

By the time, the rope gives in he just slides down the wall; considerable tremors shook his limbs, as he realizes that, at last, he's one step closer to freedom. Breathing slowly, he tugs his knees to his chest, curling his body. This will not help to ease the pain — Charles knows this, intellectually, but it brings him a certain satisfaction nonetheless. He breaths out his fear, haggard and worn, and privately marvels whether he can do more.

Carefully, he stands up, leaning on the wall for support and immediately wobbles as dark spots start marring his vision. There he stays to catch his breath, not thinking about his cracked ribs and about the burn on his side, gathering his strength.

Priority number one — get out of here, find a phone, call Erik and ask him for backup. Greed must be stopped before he kills again. Charles hopes that Erik has already sent someone to get Amanda to safety after that call. Good god, he swallows an acid, heavy gulp, there's probably a little war zone in the precinct by now. And, this is only a hypothesis, but Charles assumes that the moment he came across Greed, he literally stood in his way, as he was going to Amanda's place, in all probability. Further guessing won't be productive and he'll deal with this later, when headache and pain disappear altogether.

His first steps to the exit and out of the room were painstakingly unsteady. Probably, the ringing in his ears was of the same origin as the headache. The only thing left for him is to grit his teeth, put up with aching and go on.

While he was searching for exit from the basement of the building, which was, apparently, a huge multistoried future shopping center, the project currently suspended, he found no signs of another human being in the vicinity. Shouldn't they guard the place somehow, marvelled Charles.

Outside, the weather was not prone to gentleness. This is absurd, decided Charles, as he stood there, taking one final glance at the gigantic construction.

No one is around.

Only later Angel would tell him that the very next day, in the morning, the police have found four out of six security guards with TV on, huddled in the trailer behind the building, totally shit faced. The other two just decided to spend the night elsewhere. Had he known that, well, perhaps it would have changed something or… nothing at all.

Clothed as he is: no coat, only his shirt, trousers and boots notwithstanding, he starts walking along the road, in the direction of the city glow, towards that luminous incandescence, led by the light like a wanderer used to be guided in good old times. The decision to leave as fast as possible, hence not stopping to search for warmer clothes, and constantly present fear that Greed can come back at any moment, recoiled on him as it could be expected. If he remembers correctly, the monstrosity, built on the money of some shady corporation, is situated not farther than a mile and a half from the official city boundary. For him it is equivalent to hundred.

On top of that, the road is under reconstruction as well. There's another road, which Greed has used, or so Charles supposes, but it is longer and goes through the forest. Just what I need, grimly decided Charles and compelled his feet to move. As if to make it worse and because this winter hates Charles for some curious reason, the wind throws a handful of snow in his face. In a few moments, the hardly discernible path beneath his feet is covered with white softness. He tries to hug himself, but his ribs protest the gesture and the burn also starts to throb, so he gives up. The horizon never becomes closer, the lights are dimming — gloomy and ominous tone sets in, as Charles realizes that hypothermia, in fact, might get to him before he reaches the city. What a hilarious story this is going to be. Escaped the serial killer but perished so miserably in the encounter with nature. The most inconsiderable of fatalities.

Snow is spiraling down from the dark, grayish sky and it feels like lots of moths are attacking him simultaneously.

So thought Charles, numb to the core, briefly wondering how much time has passed since he could feel his hands, feel pretty much anything at this rate. But, still, he kept walking. On and on.

That district, where everything starts and ends, is as devoid of fineness as he remembers. It looked just if, when somebody was shaping its image, he had given it only half of attention. Yet Charles was compelled to acknowledge to himself, that overall whiteness was wistfully beautiful. A puff of the west wind blew again, rising the sparkling fluffiness up and sweeping it down.

It's about time he saw someone, walking down the street and already turning around the corner. Charles tried to approach the person faster, but stumbled, in his haste nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Please, wait!" he shouted. He thought he shouted, because the wheezing appeared too unintelligible even to his own ears. Nevertheless, he was noticed, as a person turned around so fast that the hood slipped back a little bit. Charles saw a glimpse of fair skin and red hair, before the woman gestured, rather rudely, and hugged her bag protectively. Every common-sensible lady would have done that, tiredly agreed Charles when she shrieked _piss off_ and sped up, rapidly increasing the distance between them.

It clearly went out of his mind that, in his current state, Charles comes across as a really suspicious character. There wasn't much to do to redeem this though. It had come upon him suddenly that he was beyond exhausted, and very weak, and sleepy alongside the solitude of the city. Alarmed by such thoughts, he leans against the wall of the non-descript old house — on sale, as indicated by the large poster. What is going on, he asks no one in particular. Everyone has disappeared. Without any reason for it. Maybe, he's dreaming, passed out in the basement and will soon open his eyes to the grey walls and terror. Charles chuckled, eerily calm — if so, he's dreamed up some nasty scenario for himself.

The world shifts out of focus and then he sees her, walking up into the light spot, under the street lightning column.

Why, this is just a dream: his dream, his rules, and in dreams fay do exist, it's their natural habitat. That's why he doesn't startle her when he starts coming closer. Therein lay reasons for her presence he doesn't care. Oh, she is beautiful, attractive in the way that makes mortals envious, almost ethereally perfect.

"Are you high?" the vision smirked, taking out a pack of cigarettes, and lighting one with elegant ease.

"Excuse me," Charles shook his head, contradicting, "I'm not. I, really, oh," words were evasive like little silver fish or like snowflakes, melting when he tried to catch them in his hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, neutral tone telling Charles that she was not sorry at all, "But, I've not got any spare cash."

"You didn't run from me," it was very important to point it out.

"Why should I?" her harsh amusement was supported by absolute assurance. "You look like you're going to collapse at any moment. And I'd like to have a smoke before my taxi comes."

Charles stared at her in weak astonishment, as she stood there, dressed in white, like the winter ruler, like the queen from the fantasy novel, and all the while keeping up a conversation with him. Though everything that happened up to this moment could be described as the very definition of horrible, Charles was finally granted a bit of luck.

"Please, I don't need your money, but, could I borrow your phone for a moment? Or you could just call the police yourself," the next words were swallowed by a cough. Gods, not now! He raised his hands up, demonstrating solemnly peaceful intentions, and took two steps back. "I mean you no harm! I — if you don't want to give me your phone, you shouldn't…" he faltered, embarrassed. "I understand. But, please, um, call the police, ask for detective Erik Lehnsherr…"

"Oh sweetheart," casually observed she, ashing the cigarette. "What business do you have with cops? Don't tell me that you killed your girlfriend and now you feel like confessing? Just drop the body in the sewers and run. It's not worth it."

"Actually, I'm a police officer myself," this one is not running away, but teasing him. What's wrong with you, people?

"In this case," she pulled out the phone from her purse and held it like a gift, smirking. "Don't be mad, officer. I was just kidding."

"Can I…"

"Of course!" she huffed, clearly impatient. "Do you need it or not?"

"Thank you! Thank you, miss!" he covered the distance between them in a blink, tentatively reaching for the offered device.

Only clumsy fingers refused to cooperate. The slick cover of the phone has been scarcely sliding from his hand again and again. Goodness, he wanted to weep, so bitter was his aggravation and shame.

"Let me," she plucked the phone from his hand. "So, number?"

Grateful, he recites the number and takes back the phone, careful not to drop it. Charles waits while his heart starts hammering madly, abruptly. For some reason, heat rises from his nape to his ears, and then he is gripped by another violent shiver. It worries him, but right now…

"Lehnsherr," Erik picks up sooner than he initially expected.

"Erik!" he exclaims, hoarsely, never mind the protocol. "Erik, I…" I don't know where to start — he wants to say, wants to ask whether Amanda is all right, but he can't.

"Fuck, Charles," he sounds breathless. "Where are you?"

What Charles likes about his boss is that he never asks unnecessary questions. So he tells him.

"Stay put! You hear me?" almost growls Erik and Charles nods. Stupid.

"I know who did it. Greed. I saw his mother's name in the old statement records, that case… He's the one we're looking for."

"Not your business anymore," cuts him off Erik and adds, softening his harsh remark, "Logan and Salvadore must have tracked him down by now. We know where he is."

"Uh, that's great," mutters Charles, relieved.

"Stay there!" repeats Erik insistently. "I'll be soon."

Then, he hangs up.

"Come on," the lady in white coaxes him out of numbness, as she taps his shoulder lightly. "Officer, shall I get my phone back any time soon? I really need to go."

"Right," he says, "You've saved my life. You…"

"Emma," she laughs, "Glad that I invested in my karma with your help."

Charles hasn't heard the engine, so absorbed in conversation, but the taxi was here, and Emma was already opening the door. She shot him a glance, full of concern, and a wicked grin that clashed with her serious expression terribly.

After following the car with his eyes until it disappeared, Charles stumbled closer to the brick wall, to the façade of that empty house. When his back touched the rough surface he shuddered, closing his eyes. A little bit more, only a little and it'll be over. This awful day will be over.

The dreadful shivers have showed themselves again, as well as light-headedness. It's too soon to go down, Charles patiently talks sense into his body. Too soon.

His boss appears like the male lead in thrillers always does — dramatically, almost out of the blue: a dashing dark silhouette against whiteness.

He emerges from the car really fast and leaves the car door open, as he purposefully strides to Charles' side.

_That's you!_ — Charles tries to say, but his voice doesn't comply any more, as he stumbles, at least his feet don't wobble, and clutches the lapels of Erik's coat, tugging at them and shaking uncontrollably. A warm, magnetic smell of his cologne is so delightful. Charles approves. Next moment, he feels the hand on his back and so he leans closer, hissing when the motion aggravates the dull throbbing pain in his side.

Erik recognizes the sound and swears. Then he pulls away from him and pries Charles' greedy hands off his coat.

Charles staggers for a moment, the effort to keep himself upright suddenly is not enough. Blearily, he blinks, not sure what to do. But then, Erik makes it all right again soon, as the splendid warmth suddenly envelopes Charles' back and shoulders. Erik's coat, because Erik is extremely generous tonight, feels obscenely nice, so nice that he decides to keep it if possible.

"You realize that you're making no sense, right?" grumbles Erik, the vague traces of sympathy are laced with gravity against the roughness of his words.

I'm sorry. I didn't realize that I was talking in the first place — this snide remark though, will never reach the target, because Charles purposefully keeps his mouth shut. The habitual presence of mind is shaded by the strange feeling of uneasiness, which deprives him of composure and settles somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

Honestly, he doesn't need to lean on his boss that much, still, however, lowering his eyes meekly, he welcomes the hand around his shoulders. Usually he despises being manhandled, but not in these circumstances. This is the positive proof of his exhaustion. After he gets into the car with some help and careful maneuvering, Charles cautiously straightens his hands, letting his head loll to the side; in doing so he tries to relax in the passenger seat.

"Don't," he shakes his head when Erik tugs at the seat belt, "I'm afraid, I won't survive another fastening today." Seeing as his attempt to crack a joke failed, he helplessly adds, "My ribs… already hurt more than before, all right? I think, I'll manage without it."

Erik nods, not aggravating the issue and Charles now likes him a bit more. Though, he already likes Erik a lot, yeah, very much so.

Inside, it's unbelievably warm. Charles, feeling safe in his seat, looks to his right, instantly catching his shabby, worn reflection in the side mirror. Sickly pallor was expected, as well as bloodless, chapped lips, but the gash on his temple and the dried up blood, probably from the time he fell down the stairs, were not. Gore stains his neck, where strands of hair are sticking to his skin, clammy and curling because of moisture. And bruises, of course. Scornfully, he observes his face with detached melancholy, contending that the evidence of what has happened left any visible traces, toying with the tender idea of deeply rooted, grave defect, which, regarding the causes, will show it ugly self soon. And without knowing why, he feels repelled. Sick even.

"I presumed," says Erik, looking reproachfully at him, "that you, of all people, would have never considered that." He continued, pronouncing the words with deliberate accuracy. "Don't look at me like that! I know what's going on. And, I'm familiar with the plain method you use to digest the ways of the world in general, so you should drop all this depressing sophisticated bullshit this instant. Clear enough?"

Charles is physically unable to keep the astonishment hidden, and the natural reaction, totally unrestrained, manifests immediately. He gapes, and then inhales too rapidly and coughs, as he struggles with his breathing.

"I'm sorry," he stutters. Not the most thoughtful response and yet earnest.

"Don't be," Erik grabs the wheel and turns to look him in the eye, "Tonight, you did remarkably well and enough about it. I'm taking you to the hospital. Can't have you stop breathing at my watch."

"You're so kind, truly kind, my friend," mumbles Charles, very well aware of the future repercussions, — through the shudder he smiles, complacent, and adds, "Now, I think, I deserve some rest."

"No," Erik sounds alarmed. This is so rare that Charles becomes mildly intrigued.

"Stay awake!"

"Why?"

"This is an order. Tell me everything what happened after you left the precinct."

"Um, okay…"

Having agreed, he rambles for a minute or so, not orderly or methodical. Now, Charles is confused by the way small words have skirted, hiding from him, and the whirling sensation grows, charged by lingering regret. This is because of warmth, he wants to explain, because of warmth he becomes a bit agitated, and, also, he can't breathe again.

After that, Charles doesn't remember much, and even the glimpses he gets, such as hovering faces — one familiar and others not so much, hands on him, rustling of clothes, flashing lights — they just fade, dissolving into nothing. Then and there comes whiteness, not freezing, wintery whiteness, but the nameless, sterile one and he finally stops resisting the powerful pull and drifts away.

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The morning he woke up was bright and fine.

The plain hospital bed, the well-lit room, anticipated IV in his arm and slight noise produced by some medical equipment has told him that things went well enough. Charles found it hard to concentrate on anything else owing to the faint dizziness — thoughts were persistently fluttering away like flakes of snow. Provided that he could at least try, he closed his eyes and immersed himself in the obligatory examination, mentally searching for the signs of residual pain, — there was some, however dull — and trying to move his limbs. Despite soreness, and the stinging pain in his side, he was mostly okay.

It seems, everything still works, — reviewed Charles, satisfied, and he had not been awake for a couple of minutes before he was fast asleep again.

Next time he cracks his eyes open it's already dusk and the nurse is talking to someone outside the door, when he stirs, determined to get her attention. So quiet was his voice, that Charles was honestly surprised that she had heard him after the second try.

They said, he was out of it for two days, and the doctor expressed his worry concerning the severity of concussion. Hence a very thorough check up, many bizarre questions about ordinary things, which made his head spin after a little while and he promptly apologized then, and finally was allowed to sleep again.

The feverish symptoms accompanying his cold disappeared in five days.

Got off light, must consider himself lucky — knew Charles, but he couldn't quite come to terms with everything. All days long, having really nothing to do, nothing to occupy his restless mind, he had been trying to go through the events of that fateful day, but never succeeded.

It was with great reluctance that his doctor agreed that Charles could leave the hospital after the week's stay.

Angel and Sean showed up early in the morning, the following day after he woke up. An hour passed quickly with Charles listening to the two of them, and hardly saying anything at all.

"You shouldn't worry about your statement, doctor says you're not to be disturbed for a few more days, so we're kind of not allowed here right now," Angel said, albeit looking interrogatively at him. Someone ought to be proud.

"He made him talk, I mean Lehnsherr. Without technically breaking any rules," Sean kept his voice low, as if afraid that Charles was not able to bear loud sounds any more.

"Yeah," nodded Angel, and gone was the composure from her tone. She was not used to it, still not, reflected Charles, as she continued, "Cracked the motherfucker like a nut," she made the gesture, visualizing the said nut.

"How did you…"

"How did we get him, right?" was the quick reply and Charles nodded, meanwhile noticing that his knuckles have turned white where he was grabbing the sheets. Instantly, he relaxed his grip.

Angel looked away from him and smiled, nudging Sean, one concerned glance at Charles was enough to throw him in the state of uncertainty. Maybe, solitude had its benefits because he could hardly tell which was worse: everyone being stealthy and concerned or not being there at all. Good god, after thinking so he absently rubbed his temple, forgetting about the bruising. Spare me, he concluded. Staying in hospital surely has always made him super grumpy.

Thankfully, Angel and Sean were too immersed in the story, the dangers and horrors of which have been downplayed by the time passed.

"There was an old lady, what was her last name, er…"

"Davidson," offered Sean.

"Thanks. She reported that she saw someone big and burly, Greed, dragging some body, this is you, into his van when she was coming back from, um, it's unimportant. So, she called, said she has been a witness to the murder and wanted to know how much she was going to get for sharing this information. Fortunately, the policemen who responded to the call, were not lazy, because they chose the stairs to get to the seventh floor, where she lives. Do you remember how you've dropped your badge there?"

"Oh, I," Charles surely was reaching for it then, maybe, that's why, "maybe, I'm not, hm, sure."

"That doesn't matter. But it will matter later, when you're going to give a testimony, so think about it, okay?"

"Sure," nodded he, not really sure at all.

"Okay, we've been worried when you hadn't showed up on time, you know. Lehnsherr has probably tried calling you, I don't know. I know that I did send you two text messages and left a voicemail."

"I called you too, only once," joined in Sean, "I thought that maybe you two, um…"

"Goodness," muttered Charles, more exasperated than embarrassed. "What's wrong with you? Uh, I'm sorry, Sean, that was a rhetorical question. I'm sorry," he smiled, aiming to reassure them.

"We are sorry," Angel punctuated every word and, therefore, slapped Sean on the back of his head to emphasize her point. "Someone should get himself a girlfriend. Really, Sean! Trust me, it helps. In most cases."

"Anyway, Lehnsherr has never been that scary before. I was afraid to breathe in his presence, when they called to tell him that they've found your badge, and the witness reported possible murder. Of course, we immediately went there, then. Called the experts, checked your car, talked to miss Miller — she was a bit hysterical, was repeating again and again that it was her fault, that she never wanted someone else to get hurt in her place."

"Poor Amanda," gasped Charles at that. She didn't deserve this; she was trying so hard to be strong.

"And then someone called Lehnsherr. When he picked up he went very pale, like a ghost."

"Aha, and very calm," added Sean.

Oh, Charles felt how his body went rigid; he could only imagine that reaction. Only he did, partly, but he was on the other end of that terror and, nevertheless, he also felt that Erik has somehow shared the suffering, harboring more compassion than he usually is prone to demonstrate to the public eye.

"So he tells us — if we hurry up, we will save him."

"And you did," Charles assured them, firmly.

"Man, you're a life saver most times," sighed Sean. "The least we can do, well, we try not to irate him, and you manage to talk to him and even argue with him. You're my hero!" his eyes fixed on Charles with a look of unmeasured awe.

"Fair enough! Also, we'd have missed your charming self a lot," winked Angel, a sultry smile on her lips, read it as you wish.

"I owe you a dinner, all right," these words have elicited a harmonious cheer from his audience.

"Cool!" Angel grinned at Sean and turned to Charles, "I suppose, you'll be obliged to invite Lehnsherr as well. Enough about it, though. Let's skip the boring details and get straight to the point. So how we cornered him, right? Lehnsherr told me and Logan to go and talk to that old hag, sorry Charles, but she deserves it and now you'll see why. We knocked, she refused to open even after I asked her very politely, explaining that the life of the police officer depends on her and so on. Nothing. Actually, we started arguing through the doors and that could have been funny, except it was really horrible, because you were kidnapped and Lehnsherr told us that we didn't have much time. Then Logan, you know how he gets sometimes, started yelling at her, well, different unpleasant things," shaking her head, Angel looked down at her hands. "Either way, it worked out well. For all I care, well, I have to admit that she also memorized the license plate number."

"Surely, she wanted to sell that info as well," grumbled Sean, defensively.

Frankly, Charles was anticipating something like this, but what was he supposed to say here.

"Hank sent us the copy of his driving license in ten minutes. As a result, our former CIA operative in disguise, here I mean old miss Davidson of course, identifies Victor Greed. We have his address. And here comes the sweet part: the moron just turns up parking when we arrive, so we, sort of, meet him at the door. I immediately call Lehnsherr — he tells me that he's got in touch with you."

"I… I called him, yes," he sat straighter, having nothing intelligent to add.

This earned him a pat on the hand, as Angel's chair was closer to his bed than Sean's and she could reach him easily.

"Cheer up, Charles," her voice was disturbingly sunny. "Logan gave him a hammering he deserved. What can I say, I also kicked him once or twice for you, but I'm more a gun person, you know."

They fell silent after that, with the courtesy Charles hadn't expected.

"Sorry," said Sean, getting up, rather somberly. "We have to go now. It's time to catch some bad people."

"Do you need anything?" inquired Angel, leaning closer for a brief hug. Only now Charles noted the extreme change in her attire in favor of formality. It was drastic. And she looked more composed and poised, as she straightened her jacket with curt gesture.

"You look gorgeous, darling," smiled Charles, watching as the faint color stained her cheeks at the compliment.

"Huh?"

"Oh, shut up, Sean," she calmly suggested.

Headache must have waited for this moment to manifest with all cruelty. It was only moderately intense, but Charles knew its ways too well by now — soon it will result in the terrible nauseating pain.

"You need to rest," Angel noticed the change in his expression, however minute. "Think again. If you need anything just call us, seeing as we've been so thoughtful and bought you a new phone in advance."

In the aftermath of that conversation Charles was compelling his headache to submit, waiting till the drugs kick in, with the weird, disturbing feeling that he has forgotten something very important. After trying to remember for a couple of minutes and aggravating the pounding in the back of his head in the process, it struck him.

_Bloody hell!_

Being the most selfish, reckless pet owner in the world he did the worst thing possible. Absolutely forgot that he had a pet.

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The first step into his apartment has been accompanied by a frantic, ferocious mewling. Hank carefully stepped in after him. Actually, he was the one feeding Charles' not so happy furry companion during his stay in the hospital.

"Come here, love," gently called out Charles, knowing that he doesn't need to ask, because he was used to being climbed on, occasional scratches notwithstanding.

"Does she have a name?" asked him Hank, frowning at the scene, obviously not used to having overly affectionate animals at home.

"Well, no, she doesn't," explained Charles, as the cat nuzzled closer, wet nose nudging his chin. "It makes sense, because she is her own self and naming her would mean that some part of initial independence has been stolen from her. We're accustomed to it."

"That's certainly a very liberal approach," thoughtfully observed Hank and wanted to add something, when his phone suddenly rang.

He muttered apologies but Charles waved them away, motioning that he didn't mind and went to the kitchen, cradling the cat with one hand and using another to scratch her ears, secretly enjoying all that purring and even the sharpness of tiny claws, still quite noticeable through the jumper.

Hank joined him, when he was reaching for the spare mug, tender feeling in his chest graduating to painful. But well, he himself absentmindedly pushed the unnecessary china to the far end of the cupboard, while reorganizing the kitchen for the sake of functionality.

Henry nearly tripped, unaccustomed to small cats jumping at him and tearing at his pants.

"Sorry, Charles," he carefully stepped aside from the cat, the movement only provoking her more, as he finished sheepishly, "The boss has called. I need to go now."

"That's fine," smiled Charles and felt a kind of tiredness one would associate with lack of sleep.

"Get better. And see you soon, I guess."

He left shortly after saying his goodbyes and Charles was left alone.

To imitate some semblance of normal routine, Charles made himself tea, and then struggled through forty minutes of checking his e-mail and reading the message board. The result of the latter activity clearly demonstrated him all unpleasant repercussions of the not completely healed concussion.

Falling asleep worn out but at least in the warm and plush comfort of his bedroom, his rest was disturbed by a succession of alarming dreams; the central figure in every one of them being the figure of his boss, Erik. He saw him drowning in the immeasurable depths of dark water, he saw him tortured in the room filled with sleek surgery equipment, he saw him killing numerous people in cold blood, eyes like sharp steel, arrogant, grim smile looked like a terrible gash on his face. Drenched in cold sweat and panting heavily, he woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't even dream of falling asleep again, because he didn't trust himself enough and preferred to stay awake for the rest of the dark hours. Rather providentially, the window of his bedroom could boast a marvelous view over the river, as he sat there with the cat — a warm, soothing weight on his lap, enjoying the beautiful sunrise and thinking about his dreams.

"All right," he thought to himself or said it aloud, it didn't really matter, "I should like to speak to him about my current situation. It's evident. After all, he's the boss, so it's natural that he's the one I must ask. If that doesn't put my mind on ease, I'm not sure anything else will."

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In his state driving was out of question, so Charles took a taxi. When he stepped outside his apartment the day was dull and opposite to pleasant, but at least it was not snowing, however, in half an hour it took him to reach the intended place the snowfall started and demonstrated no intention to slow down. Fate, in her attempt to mock him, used rather prosaic means.

He approached the doors in less than a minute, but hesitated before pressing the button. Then Charles recalled his dreams, his restlessness and stupid unease and thought that he shouldn't waver.

It is cold, but this time he's bundled up in three warm layers and has his gloves on, which makes him immune to cold, more or less.

Ah, the door bell seems to be out of order, decided Charles when nobody answered it. He knocked. When no reaction followed he knocked again, more persistently than before. As far as he could assume, Erik was at home, his car has not left the garage today and the light was on, tiny slivers of gold visible through the drawn curtains.

When the door opens with more force than necessary he staggers back, and nearly loses his balance — any steps, of any kind, pose imminent danger to him and thus should be avoided, especially this stone doorstep, covered by show and probably with fair share of ice underneath.

"What the fuck?! I already told you to get out!" shouts Erik and looks at him wildly. Understanding dawns upon him quickly though, and he groans in response to Charles' defensive step back.

"Xavier? Aren't you on sick leave? But, well," he mutters, wearily, and turns his back to Charles, oblivious to his astonishment, "come in and close the door."

"Can I? Really?"

"What?"

Erik looks not so unapproachable in his worn-out jeans and a faded T-shirt, almost surrealistically domestic and placid, and he is also only mildly annoyed right now.

"Um, you never let me come in, so I thought, I was going to ask you a favor and, well, and give you this," said Charles, holding a package in the outstretched hand.

Erik blankly stares at the package and then he stares at Charles, but in a baffled kind of way.

"Just come in, for god's sake!" he takes hold of Charles' wrist and yanks him closer, the abrupt motion prompted Charles to stumble through the open door, and in such trivial manner Charles has finally entered the holy of holies.

"Leave your coat here, I don't want you to drop water all over the place," with this he disappeared in the depths of the dimly lit corridor, while Charles was busy unbuttoning his coat. When he came up closer to the hall stand, he recognized the faint, but unmistakable sweet fragrance lingering in the air. Ah _interesting_, so his timing is either very wrong or just perfect.

Treading carefully, Charles followed Erik along the corridor to the living room. It was truly cozy — mused Charles when he was looking around. Green and dark brown upholstery add some fundamental comfort to the room and gentle orange light of the floor-lamp makes the atmosphere a touch… intimate. Goodness, he is beginning to feel drowsy just from the warmth and this couch suddenly looks too tempting.

Erik was pouring something copper-colored in two glasses. He looked up at Charles and motioned for him to take a glass. Charles, despite being not sure whether he was allowed to drink alcohol and how it might affect him, took the offered glass, not willing to seem rude.

"I brought you a little souvenir, sir," he says hoarsely. Seeing as Erik only lifted an eyebrow on him, Charles hastens to add. "To thank you for, you know, bearing up with, uh, with everything." Bye-bye eloquence.

"Came down to bribery?" inquires him Erik, oddly cheerful. "How the mighty have fallen! No fiery speech? But I really appreciate the gesture. Up till now, no one actually thought about offering gifts as extra bonuses for mental hazards. In this case, Cassidy owes me a wagon of souvenirs."

Charles sighs, he knows where that mockery comes from, but he is too exhausted for mere games of wit.

"You don't really mean it, Erik," he blankly retorts. His hand is trembling a little, so he puts the glass on the closest flat surface, and thinks: good god, it's too warm in here; he feels as if he's almost roasting in his shirt and woolen jumper.

"Charles, can you hear me?" Erik is abruptly standing next to him and Charles blinks, disorientated. Upon making a vague discovery that Erik has his hand round his waist, he has no idea how and when did it come to this.

"Yes, definitely," he weakly agrees. He has to explain, so that's what he does. "Lately, it happens sometimes, the abrupt temperature change and I, sort of, don't feel well. Actually, I came to ask you whether you could let me come back to work next week, but, I suppose, now I shouldn't even bother."

"Why? I don't get it. Why do you want to go back so soon?" Erik withdraws, very slowly, and Charles sinks into the closest plush armchair with a defeated sigh. He combs his hair with his fingers, trying to tame unruly strands, as they dry up quickly and usually prefer to stick in every possible direction afterwards.

"Because otherwise I'll go mad. That's why."

Silence went on and on, till at length Charles stirred, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"We can't let this happen, can we," sighs Erik, and after Charles looks up, he doesn't take his hand back, but instead pats Charles' shoulder with an air of awkward reassurance.

Rarely Charles felt as well cared for as in that moment, there was something about Erik's almost timid manner, something elusive and thus unknown to others, and yet, it worked its magic. It was somewhat akin to ridiculous frailty springing into existence between them right now. And Charles, much distracted by a new intense emotion, was half afraid that the feeling would flee, would taunt him and then disappear, like all good things used to, especially in his life.

"Well, really," the wavering in Erik's voice was quite evident. "You're welcomed to come on Wednesday afternoon."

"Thank you, Erik!" Charles must have expressed his delight too soon, because Erik immediately scowled.

"Since when are we on a first name basis?"

"Since we've become friends," eagerly answered Charles.

"As if I had a free choice," replied Erik languidly, as he sagged into the armchair, a gracious stretch of his body was devoid of the strain, which has recently become rather habitual.

"By the way," prods Charles. "There's a chess set in that box," he nods to the package left on the table. "Shall we?"

"Why not?" Erik shrugs, "If you are ready for the good execution, mind that."

"Let's find out," instantly beams Charles, enormously happy; and the only stupid concern — how would Erik react if he were to take off his unbelievably suffocating jumper is not able to spoil this magnificent moment.

.

.

.

_To be continued..._


End file.
